Discipline: A Novel

CHAPTER X.

The next morning, on entering the breakfast-parlour, the first
object which met my eye was Miss Mortimer, in a travelling dress.
Notwithstanding our conversation on the preceding day, the consciousness
of having done amiss made me ascribe her departure,
or at least the suddenness of it, to displeasure against me; and,
"soon moved with touch of blame," I would not deign to notice
the circumstance, but took my place at the breakfast-table in surly
silence. Our meal passed gloomily enough. I sat trying to convince
myself that Miss Mortimer was unreasonably offended; my
father wrinkled his dark brows till his eyes were scarcely visible;
Miss Arnold fidgeted upon her chair; and Miss Mortimer bent
over her untasted chocolate, stealing up her fingers now and then
to arrest the tear ere it reached her cheek.

"Truly, Miss Mortimer," said my father, at last, "I must say I
think it a little strange that you should leave us so suddenly, before
we have had time to provide a person to be with Ellen." This
speech, or the manner in which it was spoken, roused Miss Mortimer;
for she answered with a degree of spirit which broke upon
the meekness of her usual manner like summer lightning on the
twilight. "While I had a hope of being useful to Miss Percy," said
she, "I was willing to doubt of the necessity for leaving her: but
every such hope must end, since it is judged advisable to use concealment
with me. Besides, I am now fully aware of my situation.
Dr. ----- has told me that any delay will be fatal to all chance of
success."

"Well," said my father, "every one is the best judge of his own
affairs; but my opinion is that you had better have stayed where
you are. You might have had my family surgeon to attend you
when you chose, without expense. I take it your accommodations
would have been somewhat different from what you can have in
that confined hovel of yours."

Miss Mortimer shook her head. "I cannot doubt your liberality,
sir," said she; "but the very name of home compensates many a
want; and I find it is doubly dear to the sick and the dying."

Miss Mortimer's last words, and the sound of her carriage as
it drove to the door, brought our comfortless meal to a close; and,
in a mood between sorrow and anger, I retreated to a window,
where I stood gazing as steadfastly into the street, as if I had
really observed what was passing there. I did not venture to
look round while I listened to Miss Mortimer's last farewell to
my father; and I averted my face still more when she drew near
and took the hand which hung listless by my side. "Ellen," said
her sweet plaintive voice, "shall we not part friends?"

I would have given the universe at that moment for the obduracy
to utter a careless answer; but it was impossible:--so I
stretched my neck as if to watch somewhat at the farther end of
the street, though in truth my eyes were dim with tears more
bitter than those of sorrow. Miss Mortimer for awhile stood by
me silent, and when she spoke, her voice was broken with emotion.
"Perhaps we may meet again," whispered she, "if I live, perhaps.
I know it is in vain to tell you now that you are leaning on a
broken reed; but if it should pierce you--if worldly pleasures fail
you--if you should ever long for the sympathy of a faithful heart,
will you think of me, Ellen? Will you remember your natural,
unalienable right over her whom your mother loved and trusted?"

I answered not. Indeed I could not answer. My father and
Miss Arnold were present; and, in the cowardice of pride, I could
not dare the humiliation of exposing to them the better feeling
which swelled my heart to bursting. I snatched my hand from
the grasp of my friend,--my only real friend,--darted from her
presence, and shut myself up alone.

By mere accident the place of my refuge was my mother's
parlour. All was there as she had left it; for when the other
apartments were new modelled to the fashion of the day, I had
rescued hers from change. There lay the drawing-case where she
had sketched flowers for me. There was the work-box where I had
ravelled her silks unchidden. There stood the footstool on which
I used to sit at her feet; and there stood the couch on which at
last the lovely shadow leaned, when she was wasting away from
our sight. "Oh, mother, mother!" I cried aloud; "mother, who
loved me so fondly, who succoured me with thy life! is this my
gratitude for all thy love! Thou hadst one friend, one dear and
true to thee; and I have slighted, abused, driven her from me,
sick and dying! Oh, why didst thou cast away thy precious life for
such a heartless, thankless thing as I am!"

My well-deserved self-reproach was interrupted by something
that touched me. It was poor Fido; who, laying his paw upon my
knee, looked up in my face, and gave a short low whine, as if
inquiring what ailed me? "Fido! poor Fido!" said I, "what
right have I to you?--you should Lave been Miss Mortimer's.
She would not misuse even a dog of my mother's. Go, go!" I
continued, as the poor creature still fawned on me; "all kindness
is lost upon me. Miss Mortimer better deserves to have the only
living memorial of her friend."

The parting steps of my neglected monitress now sounded on
my ear as she passed to the carriage; and, catching my little
favourite up in my arms, I sprang towards the door. "I will
bid her keep him for my mother's sake," thought I, "and ask her
too, for my mother's sake, to pardon me." My hand was on the
lock, when I heard Miss Arnold's voice, uttering, unmoved, a cold
parting compliment; and I was not yet sufficiently humbled to let
her witness my humiliation. I did not dare to meet the stoical
scrutiny of her eye, and hastily retreated from the door. After
a moment's hesitation, I pulled the bell, and a servant came.
"Take that dog to Miss Mortimer," said I, turning away to hide
my swollen eyes, "and tell her I beg as a particular favour that
she will carry him away with her--he has grown intolerably
troublesome." The man stood staring in inquisitive surprise; for
all the household knew that Fido was my passion. "Why don't
you do as you are desired?" cried I, impatiently. The servant
disappeared with my favourite; I Listened till I heard the carriage
drive off; then threw myself on my mother's couch, and wept
bitterly.

Glad to turn my thoughts from a channel in which nothing
pleasurable was to be found, I now reverted to the incidents of the
former evening. But there, too, all was comfortless or obscure.
The situation in which I had been surprised by Lady Maria was
gall and wormwood to my recollection. I could neither endure
nor forbear to anticipate the form which the ingenuity of hatred
might give to the story of my indiscretion; and, while I pictured
myself already the object of sly sarcasm,--of direct reproach,--of
insulting pity,--every vein throbbed feverishly with proud impatience
of disgrace, and redoubled hatred of my enemy. In the
tumult of my thoughts, a wish crossed my mind, that I had once
sheltered myself from calumny, and inflicted vengeance on my foe,
by consenting to accompany Lord Frederick to Scotland; but this
was only the thought of a moment; and the next I relieved my
mind from the crowd of tormenting images which pressed upon it,
by considering whether my lover had really meditated a bold
experiment upon my pliability, or whether my masquerade friend
had been mistaken in his intelligence. Finding myself unable to
solve this question, I went to seek the assistance of Miss Arnold.
I was told she was abroad; and, after wondering a little whither
she could have gone without acquainting me, I ordered the
carriage, and went to escape from my doubts, and from myself, by
a consultation with Lady St. Edmunds.

Her Ladyship's servant seemed at first little inclined to admit
me; but observing that a hackney coach moved from the door to
let my barouche draw up, I concluded that my friend was at
home, and resolutely made my way into the house. The servant,
seeing me determined, ushered me into a back drawing-room;
where, after waiting some time, I was joined by Lady St. Edmunds.
She never received me with more seeming kindness. In
the course of our conversation, I related, so far as it was known to
me, the whole story of the mask; and ended by asking her opinion
of the affair. She listened to my tale with every appearance of
curiosity and interest; and, when I paused for a reply, declared,
without hesitation, that she considered the whole interference and
behaviour of my strange protector as a jest. I opposed this
opinion, and Lady St. Edmunds defended it; till I inadvertently
confessed that I had private reasons for believing him to be perfectly
serious. Her Ladyship's countenance now expressed a
lively curiosity, but I was too much ashamed of my "private
reasons" to acknowledge them; and she was either too polite to
urge me, or confident of gaining the desired information by less
direct means.

Finding me assured upon this point, she averred that the information
given by my black domino, if not meant in jest, must at
least have originated in mistake. "These prying geniuses," said
she, "will always find a mystery, or make one. But of this I am
sure, Frederick has too much of your own open undesigning
temper to entrap you; even though," added she, with a sly smile,
"he were wholly without hopes from persuasion." I was defending
myself in some confusion from this attack, when Lady St.
Edmunds interrupted me by crying out, "Oh, I can guess now
how this mystery of yours has been manufactured! I have this
moment recollected that Frederick intended setting out early this
morning for Lincolnshire. Probably he might go the first stage
in the carriage which took him home from the ball; and your
black domino having discovered this circumstance, has knowingly
worked it up into a little romance."

Glad to escape from the uneasiness of suspicion, and perhaps
from the necessity of increasing my circumspection, I eagerly laid
hold on this explanation, and declared myself perfectly satisfied;
but Lady St. Edmunds, who seemed anxious to make my conviction
as complete as possible, insisted on despatching a messenger
to inquire into her nephew's motions.

She left the room for this purpose; and I almost unconsciously
began to turn over some visiting cards which were strewed on her
table. One of them bore Miss Arnold's name, underneath which
this sentence was written in French: "Admit me for five minutes;
I have something particular to say." These words were pencilled,
and so carelessly, that I was not absolutely certain of their being
Miss Arnold's hand-writing. I was still examining this point,
when Lady St. Edmunds returned; and, quite unsuspectingly, I
showed her the card; asking her smiling, "What was this deep
mystery of Juliet's?"

"That?" said Lady St. Edmunds;--"oh, that was--a--let me
see--upon my word, I have forgotten what it was--a consultation
about a cap, or a feather, or some such important affair--I suppose
it has lain on that table these six months."

"Six months!" repeated I simply. "I did not know that you
had been so long acquainted."

"How amusingly precise you are!" cried Lady St. Edmunds,
laughing. "I did not mean to say exactly six times twenty-nine
days and six hours, but merely that the story is so old that I have
not the least recollection of the matter."

She then immediately changed the subject. With a countenance
full of concern, and with apologies for the liberty she took, she
begged that I would enable her to contradict a malicious tale which,
she said, Lady Maria de Burgh had, after I left the masquerade,
half-hinted, half-told, to almost every member of the company.
Ready to weep with vexation, I was obliged to confess that the
tale was not wholly unfounded; and I related the affair as it had
really happened. Lady St. Edmunds lifted her hands and eyes,
ejaculating upon the effects of malice and envy in such a manner, as
convinced me that my indiscretion had been dreadfully aggravated
in the narration; but when I pressed to know the particulars, she
drew back, as if unwilling to wound me further, and even affected to
make light of the whole affair. She declared that, being now
acquainted with the truth, she should find it very easy to defend
me:--"At all events," added she, "considering the terms on which
you and Frederick stand with each other, nobody, except an old
prude or two, will think the matter worth mentioning." I was
going to protest against this ground of acquittal, when the servant
came to inform his mistress aloud, that Lord Frederick
had set out for Lincolnshire at five o'clock that morning. This
confirmation of Lady St. Edmunds' conjecture entirely removed
my suspicions; and convinced me that my black domino, having
executed his commission with more zeal than discernment, had
utterly mistaken Lord Frederick's intentions.

Some other visitors being now admitted, I left Lady St.
Edmunds, and ordered my carriage home, intending to take up
Miss Arnold before I began my usual morning rounds. At the
corner of Bond Street, the overturn of a heavy coal-waggon had
occasioned considerable interruption; and, while one line of carriages
passed cautiously on, another was entirely stopped. My
dexterous coachman, experienced in surmounting that sort of difficulty,
contrived to dash into the moving line. As we slowly passed
along, I thought I heard Miss Arnold's voice. She was urging
the driver of a hackney coach to proceed, while he surlily declared,
"that he would not break his line and have his wheels torn off to
please anybody." The coach had in its better days been the property
of an acquaintance of mine, whose arms were still blazoned
on the panel; and this circumstance made me distinctly remember,
that it was the same which I had seen that morning at Lady St.
Edmunds' door.

On observing me, Miss Arnold at first drew back; but presently
afterwards looked out, and nodding familiarly, made a sign for me
to stop and take her into my barouche. I obeyed the signal; but
not, I must own, with that cordial good-will which usually impelled
me towards Miss Arnold. My friend's manner, however, did not
partake of the restraint of mine. To my cold inquiry, "where
she had been," she answered, with ready frankness, that she had
been looking at spring silks in a shop at the end of the street. In
spite of the manner in which this assertion was made, I must own
that I was not entirely satisfied of its truth. The incident of the
hackney-coach, and the words which I had seen written on the
card, recurring together to my mind, I could not help suspecting
that Miss Arnold had paid Lady St. Edmunds a visit which was
intended to be kept secret from me. Already out of humour, and
dispirited, I admitted this suspicion with unwonted readiness;
and, after conjecturing for some moments of surly silence, what could
be the motive of this little circumvention, I bluntly asked my friend,
whether she had not been in Grosvenor Square that morning?

"Because the very carriage from which you have just alighted
I saw at Lady St Edmunds' door not half an hour ago."

"Very likely," retorted my friend, "but you did not see me in
it, I suppose."

I owned that I did not, but mentioned the card, which was
connected with it in my mind; confessing, however, simply enough,
that Lady St. Edmunds denied all recollection of it. Miss Arnold
now raised her handkerchief to her eyes. "Unkind Ellen!" said
she, "what is it you suspect? Why should I visit Lady St.
Edmunds without your knowledge? But, since yesterday, you are
entirely changed,--and, after seven years of faithful friendship
--" She stopped, and turned from me as if to weep.

I was uneasy, but not sufficiently so to make concessions. "If
my manner is altered, Juliet," said I, "you well know the cause of
the change. Was it not owing to you that I was so absurdly
committed to the malice of that hateful Lady Maria? And now
there is I know not what of mystery in your proceedings that puts
me quite out of patience."

"Yes, well I know the cause," answered Miss Arnold, as if still
in tears. "Your generous nature would never have punished so
severely an error of mere thoughtlessness, if that cruel Miss
Mortimer had not prejudiced you against me. She is gone indeed
herself; but she has left her sting behind. And I must go, too!"
continued Miss Arnold, sobbing more violently. "I could have
borne any thing except to be suspected."

My ungoverned temper often led me to inflict pain, which, with
a selfishness sometimes miscalled good nature, I could not endure
to witness. Entirely vanquished by the tears of my friend, I
locked my arms round her neck, assured her of my restored confidence;
and, as friends of my sex and age are accustomed to do,
offered amends for my transient estrangement in a manner more
natural than wise, by recanting aloud every suspicion, however
momentary, which had formerly crossed my mind. A person of
much less forecast than Miss Arnold might have learned from this
recantation where to place her guards for the future.

My friend heard me to an end, and then with great candour
confessed what she could not now conceal, that Lord Frederick
had her wishes for his success; but she magnanimously forgave
my imagining, even for a moment, that she could condescend to
assist him; and appealed to myself, what motive she could have
for favouring his suit, except the wish of seeing me rise to a rank
worthy of me. She then justified herself from any clandestine
transaction with Lady St. Edmunds, giving me some very unimportant
explanation of the card which had perplexed me.

It is so painful to suspect a friend, and I was so accustomed to
shun pain by all possible means, that I willingly suffered myself
to be convinced; and harmony being restored by Miss Arnold's
address, we engaged ourselves in shopping and visiting till it was
tine to prepare for the pleasure of the night. My spirits were
low, and my head ached violently; but I had not the fortitude to
venture upon a solitary evening. From the dread of successful
malice,--from the recollection of abused friendship,--in a word,
from myself,--I fled, vainly fled, to the opera, and three parties;
from whence I returned home, more languid and comfortless than
ever.

I had just retired to my apartment, when a letter was brought
me, which ran as follows:--

"When you read this letter, my dear Ellen, one circumstance
may perhaps assist its influence. My counsels, however received,
whether used or rejected, are now drawing to a close; and you
may safely grant them the indulgence we allow to troubles which
will soon cease to molest us. I know not how far this consideration
may affect you, but I cannot think of it without strong
emotion. I have often and deeply regretted that my usefulness to
you has been so little answerable to my wishes; yet, with the
sympathy which rivets our eyes on danger which we cannot avert,
I would fain have lingered with you still; watching, with the
same painful solicitude, the approach of evils, which I in vain
implored you to avoid. But it must not be. Aware of my
situation, I dare not trifle with a life which is not mine to throw
away. I must leave you, my dearest child, probably for ever. I
must loosen this last hold which the world has on a heart already
severed from all its earliest affections. And can I quit you without
one last effort for your safety;--without once again earnestly
striving to rouse your watchfulness, ere you have cast away your
all for trifles without use or value?

"Ellen, your mother was my first friend. We grow up together.
We shared in common the sports and the improvements of youth;
and common sorrows, in maturer life, formed a still stronger bond.
Yet I know not if my friend herself awakened a tenderness so
touching, as that which remembrance mingles with my affection
for you, when your voice or your smile reminds me of what she
was in her short years of youth and joy. Nor is it only in trifles
such as these that the resemblance rises to endear you. You have
your mother's simplicity and truth,--your mother's warm affections,--your
mother's implicit confidence in the objects of her love.
This last was indeed the shade, perhaps the only shade of her
character. But she possessed that 'alchemy divine' which could
transform even her dross into gold; and what might have been her
weakness became her strength, when she placed her supreme
regards upon excellence supreme. The nature of your affections
also seems to give their object, whatever it be, implicit influence
with you; and thus it becomes doubly important that they be
worthily bestowed. It is this which has made me watch, with
peculiar anxiety, the channels in which they seemed inclined to
flow; and lament, with peculiar bitterness, that a propensity
capable of such glorious application should be lost, or worse than
lost to you.

"These, however, are subjects upon which you have never permitted
me to enter. You have repelled them in anger; evaded
them in sport; or barred them at once as points upon which you
were determined to act, I must not say to judge, for yourself. If,
indeed, you would have used your own judgment, one unpleasing
part of this letter might have been spared; for surely your
unbiassed judgment might show you the danger of some connexions
into which you have entered. It might remind you, that
the shafts of calumny are seldom so accurately directed, as not to
glance aside from their chief mark to those who incautiously
approach; that those whom it has once justly or unjustly suspected,
the world views with an eye so jaundiced as may discolour
even the most innocent action of their willing associate. Even
upon these grounds I think your judgment, had it been consulted,
must have given sentence against your intimacy with Lady St.
Edmunds. But these are not all. Persons who know her Ladyship
better than I pretend to do, represent her as a mixture, more
common than amiable, of improvidence in the selection of her
ends, with freedom in the choice, and dexterity in the use of the
means which she employs: in short (pardon the severity of truth),
as a mixture of imprudence and artifice. My dearest girl, what
variety of evil may not result to you from such a connexion?
Whatever may be my suspicions, I am not prepared to assert that
Lady St. Edmunds has any sinister design against you. Your
manifest indifference towards her nephew makes me feel more
security on the point where I should otherwise have dreaded her
influence the most. But I am convinced, that the mere love of
manoeuvring becomes in itself a sufficient motive for intrigue, and
is of itself sufficient to endanger the safety of all who venture
within its sphere. The frank and open usually possess an instinct
which, independently of caution, repels them from the designing.
I must not name to you that unhappy trait in your character, by
which this instinct has been made unavailing to you; by which the
artful wind themselves into your confidence, and the heartless
cheat you of your affection. Has not the ceaseless incense which
Miss Arnold offers blinded you to faults, which far less talent for
observation than you possess might have exposed to your knowledge
and to your disdain? Do not throw aside my letter with
indignation; but, if the words of truth offend you, consider that
from me they will wound you no more; and pardon me, too, when
I confess, that, in despair of influencing you upon this point, I
have entreated your father not to renew his invitation to Miss
Arnold, but rather to discourage, by every gentle and reasonable
means, an intimacy so eminently prejudicial to you.

"And now I think I see you raise your indignant head; and,
with the lofty scorn of baseness which I have so often seen expressed
in your countenance and mien, I hear you exclaim, 'Shall
I desert my earliest friend!--repay with cold ingratitude her
long-tried, ardent attachment?' Your indignation, Ellen, is
virtuous, but mistaken. If Miss Arnold's attachment be real, she
has a claim to your gratitude, indeed; but not to your intimacy,
your confidence, your imitation. These are due to far other qualifications.
But are you sure, Ellen, that the warm return you make
to Miss Arnold's supposed affection is itself entirely real? Are
you sure, that it is not rather the form under which you choose to
conceal from yourself, that her adulation is become necessary to
you? Before you indignantly repel this charge, ask your own
heart, whether you are, in every instance, thus grateful for disinterested
love? Is there not a friend of whose love you are
regardless?--whose counsels you neglect?--whose presence you
shun?--from whom you withhold your trust, though the highest
confidence were here the highest wisdom?--whom you refuse to
imitate, though here the most imperfect imitation were glorious?
You exchange your affection, and all the influence which your
affection bestows, for a mere shadow of good-will. The very dog
that fawns upon you, is caressed with childish fondness. Oh,
Ellen, does it never strike you with strong amazement to reflect,
that you are sensible to every love but that which is boundless?
grateful for every kindness but that which is wholly undeserved--wholly
beyond return? Is nothing due to an unwearied friend?
Is it fitting, that one who lives, who enjoys so much to sweeten
life, by the providence, the bounty, the forbearance of a benefactor,
should live to herself alone? Yet ask your own conscience, what
part of your plan of life, or rather, since I believe your life is without
a plan, which of your habits is inspired by gratitude. Dare
to be candid with yourself, and though the odious word will grate
upon your ear, inquire whether selfishness be not rather your
chosen guide;--whether you be not selfish in your pursuit of pleasure,--selfish
in your fondness for the flatterer who soothes your
vanity,--selfish in the profuse liberality with which you vainly hope
to purchase an affection which it is not in her nature to bestow,--selfish
even in the relief which you indiscriminately lavish on
every complainer whose cry disturbs you on your bed of roses.
Is this the temper of a Christian--of one 'who is not her
own, but is bought with a price?' Consider this awful price,
and how will your own conduct change in your estimation?
How will you start as from a fearful dream, when you remember
that of this mighty debt you have hitherto lived regardless?
How will you then abhor that pursuit of selfish pleasure
which has hitherto alienated your mind from all that best
deserves your care,--blasted the very sense by which you should
have perceived the excellence of your benefactor,--diverted
your regards from the deeper and deeper death which is palsying
your soul; and closed your ear against the renovating voice which
calls you to arise and live? This voice, once heard, would exalt
your confiding temper to the elevations of faith,--ennoble your
careless generosity to the self-devotion of saints and martyrs,--your
warmth of affection, now squandered on the meanest of
objects to the love of God. The true religion once received, would
change the whole current of your hopes and fears;--would ennoble
your desires, subdue passion, humble the proud heart, overcome
the world. But you will not give her whereon to plant her foot:
for where, amidst the multitude of your toys, shall religion find a
place? Oh, why should we, by continued sacrifice, confirm our
natural idolatry of created things? Why fill, with the veriest
baubles of this unsubstantial scene, hearts already too much
inclined to exclude their rightful possessor? The pursuit of
selfish pleasure is indeed natural, for self is the idol of fallen man;
but the great end of his present state of being is to prostrate that
idol before the Supreme. The stony Dagon bows unwillingly, but
bow he must. Our heavenly Father, though a merciful, is not a
fond or partial parent; and the same lot is more or less the
portion of us all. He has freely given. He has done more; he
has warned us of the real uses of his gifts. Perverse by nature,
we abuse his bounty. Again, he exhorts us by the ministry of his
servants; and often graciously sweetens his warnings, by conveying
them in the voice of partial friendship, or parental love. We
reject counsel; and the father unwillingly chastises. He withdraws
the gifts which we have perverted, or suffers them to become
themselves the punishment of their own abuse. If kindness
cannot touch, nor exhortation move, nor warning alarm, nor
chastisement reclaim, what other means can be employed with a
moral being? What remains but the fearful sentence, 'He is
joined to his idols; let him alone.' Oh, Ellen, my blood freezes at
the thought that such a sentence may ever go forth against you.
Rouse you, dear child of my love,--rouse you from your ill-boding
security. Tremble, lest you already approach that state where
mercy itself assumes the form of punishment. You have hitherto
lived to yourself alone. Now venture to examine this god of your
idolatry;--for the being whose pleasure and whose honour you
seek, is your god, call it by what name you will. See if it be
worthy to divide even your least service with Him who, infinite in
goodness, accepts the imperfect,--showers his bounty on the
unprofitable,--and opens, even to the rebel, the arms of a father!--who
meets your offences with undesired pardon, and anticipates
your wants with offers of himself! Think you that this generous
love could lay on you a galling yoke? I know that, though you
should distrust my judgment, you will credit ray testimony: and I
solemnly protest to you, that I have found his service to be 'perfect
freedom.' He exalts my joys as gifts of his bounty; He
blesses my sorrows as tokens of His love; He lightens my duties
by honouring them, poor as they are, with his acceptance; and
even the pang with which I feel and own myself a lost sinner is
sweetened by remembrance of that mercy which came to seek and
to save me, because I was lost. These are my pleasures; and I
know that they can counterbalance poverty, and loneliness, and
pain. Your pleasures too I have tried; and I know them to be
cold, fleeting, and unsubstantial, as the glories of a winter sky.
Oh, for the eloquence of angels, that I might persuade you to
exchange them for the real treasure! Yet vain were the eloquence
of Angels, if the 'still small voice' be wanting, which alone can
speak to the heart. I may plead, and testify, and entreat; but is
aught else within my power?--Yes,--I will go and pray for you.

This presentation of Discipline: A Novel, by Mary Brunton
is Copyright 2003 by P.J. LaBrocca.
It may not be copied, duplicated,
stored or transmitted in any form without written permission.
The text is in the public domain.